


here is my see through heart

by goreallegore



Series: lets learn to love [3]
Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:46:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8298178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goreallegore/pseuds/goreallegore
Summary: Mark finally settles on, “I think I spend so much time thinking what I want to say that I never get around to saying what I actually want.”
Or, Mark takes a chance, and Jinyoung has always known.





	

**Author's Note:**

> helllloooooo. this is my favorite kpop pairing (tied w one more) out of all !!! markjin are SOOO special to me and they are each other's rocks and i just. i wanna cry thinking about how good friends they are anyway here is them a little in love so please treat them (and me) kindly. thanks to my best friend sav for helping and emma for being a a wonderful cheerleader.

Mark opens the Styrofoam box of takeout that he’d ordered an hour ago, and blindly reaches into the plastic bag searching for a pair of chopsticks. Jackson pulls out the chair next to him, the one with the wonky leg that they’ve been meaning to get fixed, but with constant touring and promotions they’ve been having it seems to skip their mind, and picks up his own box that has a messily scrawled _chicken_ written on it in black sharpie.

 

It’s quarter to nine and the rest of the boys have already eaten, Yugyeom ordering on his own right when they got back from recording, and Bambam choosing to eat with him this time. Youngjae, Jinyoung, and Jaebum opted going out to get some barbeque and albeit the tempting invitation Mark chose to stay back - the soreness in his thighs a gentle reminder that he made a good decision. Like always, like most things, Jackson followed suit.

 

The wispy noodle curled around the wooden chopstick hangs loosely when he voices, “Jackson.”  
  


Jackson glances up, wide-eyed and restless, mouth full of food, “Hm?”

 

The tip of his tongue tries to taste the words he’s trying to get out, like when you revise for your exams and make these mental bullet points trying to remember how exactly Derivatives work, but Mark thinks real life is quite different than his 11th grade math class. There is no such thing as a concrete answer not when everything is dependent on a chance. One’s you take, or don’t.

 

School, and all things related seem so far now. Reckon, though, those are the things he’ll always know. So, he tries again, eyebrows furrowing as he looks down at his soupy noodles that are colder than he’d like, and asks, “Do you ever feel like your thoughts are clogging your brain? Like, there is so much that it almost feels like nothing at all?”

 

Jackson stays quiet for a bit, and from the corner of his eye he can see the tell-tale fidgeting of his friends’ hands. This means that he knows that what he says is important to Mark which in itself tugs at the strings around his heart. “What do you mean? Overbearing thoughts?” He sounds careful, Mark can tell, with the way he speaks as if the words might come out too sharp and sting at Mark’s skin. “A traffic you can’t control, like?”

 

Mark blinks, chopsticks settling now in the dip of the container, and that’s it. His head feels like a traffic rush hour from which he can’t seem to get out of.

 

The kitchen where they’re sitting is nothing fancy with their wobbly chairs, and magnet stacked fridge with chicken coupons and pictures their parents send in the mail, a polaroid from their debut days. Their dorm screams home so they call it just that, and when they have to explain to outsiders they trip over words trying to enunciate what buds in all their chests, and funny is they _can’t_.

 

The overhead light hanging from the ceiling emanates a soft glow on the table; over the dispersed cartons of food, the pitcher of juice Bambam drank out of but never remembered to put back into the fridge, the note Jinyoung had scrawled out listlessly before leaving sitting at the edge. _Don’t forget to take out the trash - jinyoung_ it says.

 

Mark finally settles on, “I think I spend so much time thinking what I want to say that I never get around to saying what I actually want.”

 

A hand comes to cover his, just lying there solid and steady like silent words of encouragement, and if that wasn’t clear enough Jackson prompts, “What is it that you’d like to?”

 

“Perhaps, to know, or to let know how it’s all muddled up here,” he smiles, self-deprecatingly one that Jinyoung has mastered over the years. He hates it, but can’t help and mimic. Pointing a finger to his head, “Not really that sorted, and put together, you know?”

 

“No one’s expecting you to be,” Jackson reminds. He’s good at making people feel, what’s the word? Complete, right. Jackson makes it feel like you’re not broken in parts trying to piece yourself together, but instead you’re just you building on what you have and what you will.

 

Consciously he brings a hand to the nape of his neck, scratching at it as if he’s back to being the ten-year-old boy standing under the sweltering Californian sun with a handcrafted lemonade stand he put together with his Dad and Joey, and squints up at Jackson, “Would it be okay to tell then?”

 

A muted fondness, the type that is settling and ever-present, creeps into Jackson’s smile, “Mark, it’s always okay. And if it won’t be, well, then you always have me.” He says so with a squeeze of his hand. Mark believes, _yeah you’re right_.

 

\--

Jinyoung wasn’t Mark’s first friend when he moved to Korea nor was he the one he got closest to right off the bat, but sometimes friendships aren’t about how fast you learn to tie to the strings of your shoelaces – Mark had to when Joey tripped over his two feet and ate dirt in kindergarten because he had tied his shoes with a messy butterfly knot. To this day he thinks he feels a tad guilty. Eventually they did become friends, it’s just, he doesn’t quite recall when quelling his emotions around Jinyoung became a habit.

 

They’re shooting for a CF that’s meant to air around the holidays, decked out in studded sweaters that would make him cringe if he ever were to see them on display during one of his and Bambam’s many impromptu mall trips, but they manage. The worst thing though is that the studio is having trouble with the aircon and they’re in woolen sweaters, and well, _sweat._

 

Jinyoung trots over after his individual take, slinging an arm around Mark, the itchy fabric rubbing against his own sweater making a static-y sound, “It’s hot.”

 

Pouting Jinyoung sighs into the crook of his neck, arm still wrapped around his shoulder, and breathes out, “You think we can get money out of Jaebum for ice cream?”

 

“Did you forget your wallet again?” Mark asks, training his eyes on the makanae who’re doing double takes because they keeping sputtering in laughter.

 

“Nope,” Jinyoung smiles, popping the ‘p’, and Mark knows because he can feel it press against the sliver of skin at the base of his neck. He knows all of Jinyoung’s smiles. “More fun when we bother him for it.”

 

“I’ll get you some we don’t have to ask JB,” he says tersely, and Jinyoung pulls back immediately – his fingers though dig into the slope of his shoulder. Softly, he asks, “Are you okay?”

 

There is a wave crashing as loud as the one at the coast of Santa Monica beach that his mind keeps wandering to, the sun-kissed skin he wore like a second skin to protect himself, here though – so far and so lost from home – he feels like he’s been peeled clean of it until he’s left vulnerable, and entirely raw. A humble swell of affection still tingles through him, traveling down to the tips of his fingers, and he can’t help but raise a hand to cup the side of Jinyoung’s face like he’s done many times before.

 

“Nah, just tired,” he says rubbing his thumb at the curve of his jaw catching the prickling stubble the makeup team desperately tries to hide, and Jinyoung looks at him with mixture of confusion and _something_. “You did great today.”

 

Mark used to think his biggest crutch was how he can’t possibly begin to articulate the chaos of thoughts sinking deep in him, but he’s learned over time, that’s it’s probably how all of him shows who he is. There isn’t much to shroud when your entire being gives away who you are – it isn’t fair, no.

 

Jaebum calls out to Jinyoung, and Mark sees the rise of his slacked shoulder, nods to the apologetic look Jinyoung offers him, and with nothing but air to grapple onto he’s left standing alone. Looking around he sees Yugyeom tussling with Bambam over their made-up choreo’s that seem to follow them around everywhere, he finds Youngjae doing vocal runs for their performance later in the evening, and expectedly so Jackson chatting with the staff about the technicalities and throwing words around like ‘air-brush’ and ‘saturated’ and – _too much_.

 

Years, days, and minutes, seems to squash together when he makes himself believe he doesn’t belong, how he’s been cheating his way through his time in GOT7, how the critique that comes in pinches piles on to leave a harsh red scab over the surface of his skin and it’s all, _all of it_ , there to be seen. Getting over his head he swallows the dryness in his throat, and there is little left to do when he’s being called for his take – and when he’s arching his neck in the splintering light fixed to his left, his eyes can’t help but dart to where Jaebum carelessly picks at Jinyoung’s hand, and he surely doesn’t miss the crinkles around Jinyoung’s eyes.

 

\--

 

“Here,” an orange popsicle hovers in his face, and he glances up to find Jinyoung leaning over him. Mark digs the tip of his toes into his skateboard, instinctively. Taking the ice cream, he rips it open, the little condensation droplets on the wrapper now clinging to his palm, “What brings you here?”

“You haven’t went skateboarding in ages,” Jinyoung takes a seat beside him on the footpath, crossing his arms over his elbows and cushioning his head on them looking up at Mark. His eyes are always bright like the glow stars stuck on the ceiling of his childhood room, one’s that he told his mom to not take off last year when he went back home for a week. When he was younger he would lay in bed on hours instead of sleeping and try to reach for them, to see if he could fly, and then he came here. His nickname is flyboy according to the fans, and the company, and a part of him wishes he could –

“Mark? Jinyoung calls.

He blinks, and, “Yeah?”

“Did I do something?” voice gentle, and – hesitant. He’s almost afraid to hear the answer, Mark figures.

He chuckles a bit, shaking his head, “What makes you think so?” And he’s half-teasing, half-curious not really expecting what he says next.

“You look sad when you look at me nowadays and I don’t like it one bit,” he says, confident. Something slams in Mark’s chest, and he can feel the blood rushing to his ears.

Helplessly, he turns his head, bringing a hand to cover his mouth and fingers rubbing his cheeks. The streetlight ripples in the puddles left over from the rain this morning, a slight draft in the air, and his skin erupts with goosebumps for another reason entirely. Jinyoung reaches over wrapping his hand around his ankle and stopping his fidgety self from grinding his board back and forth under the weight of his feet.

“This is ridiculous,” Mark claims, itching to get up and leave.

“Quite so,” Jinyoung agrees. But he doesn’t stop at just that, he laughs low and unrestrained, “You know, you’re not that good at hiding.”

Mark misses California, always, perpetually.

But Jinyoung smiles with his eyes the same kind he does when they win Music Banks and hold those trophies like their dearest possessions, the same one he does when animatedly describes the latest book he’s read, the same on as when fans tell him that he sings well and they’re proud of him, the same one as right now.

 Mark misses _home_. It’s ok though because when Jinyoung looks up at him from the creased whiskers around his eyes, with a steady hand on him, he reckons it’s not hard to make a new one.

Taking a leap of faith, allowing the beating frenzied organ pressing against his ribs, he brings a hand to Jinyoung’s where it’s wrapped around his ankle. Rubbing at the curve of his index finger and thumb, he says facing the bursts of color painted on his skateboard, “Being away from everyone isn’t that bad when you guys are around.”

“Glad to be so,” Jinyoung pulls back, patting his thigh as he gets up, and like a spark Mark knows he’ll regret letting him go back inside. So, he gets on his feet too, rolling the name on his tongue and saying, “Jinyoungie, wait”

“Hrm?” always smiling, always comforting.

Mark steps between the cracked pavement, feet sliding to the rocky beat in his chest and he wonders if a song could be made out of it, one that rises only to fall and rise again, and comes to face Jinyoung.

He grabs his wrist pulling him in, and Jinyoung trips over the same cracked pavement Mark so carefully stands on, falling into the circle of his arms, ducking his head down Mark presses his lips to Jinyoung’s. There is a little fumbling, not to escape, but to arch up, but before Jinyoung can reciprocate Mark is pulling back, rambling, “I am bad with words, and by the time I have them I’ve lost my chance.”

Jinyoung places his palms flat on his chest, straightening himself, there is color to his cheeks and Mark can only imagine his own ears resembling tomato soup that he orders whenever they go to the vegetarian restaurant across Han River. His chest though doesn’t clench, nor does it tugs painfully, instead he feels light-headed.

Jinyoung trails on hand up to the cut of Mark’s jaw, and pecks his lips gently, “Not yet you haven’t.”

 

\--

Mark Yi-en Tuan is from California. He likes skateboarding, and adventure sports. He loves his family, and his bandmates from GOT7, and rapping, and performing. He also ~~loves~~ likes Park Jinyoung, and he’s a little lost, but that’s ok because as they say:

_home is where the heart is_

 

fin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment !! kudos !!! etc !! oh and come talk to me on writersrightwrite.tumblr.com about my babies or ur favs !! or anything tbh.


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